Bedlam Boys
by Calico Yorki
Summary: "...The Bedlam Boys are bonny. For they all go bare, and they live by the air, and they want no drink or money." - Old Sea Shanty In which pirates assist my machinations to make my fanfic live up to the M-Rating. Also read as, an old scourge of the sea comes home to roost, a lesser scourge is found by a fisherman, and Old Scratch laughs with delight. I CANNOT SUMMARIZE ARRGH


In the wee hours of the morning, most of the scum and scoundrels of Krawk Island were asleep after a long night of mischief. Salty spray cut through the night, leaping clear of the rocky crags. Warf's Wharf was packed with ships, where unscrupulous merchants and benign pirates alike, and all in-between, were trying to get a descent knight's sleep.

Down on the beach, however, a single blue Krawk tried to keep his activities silent. No one was allowed down here, both for the dangerous surf, and for the possible looting of ships by native islanders. That didn't stop the young man from desperately trying to catch as many fish as he could, so as to make a semblance of a living on this island. He'd only caught tiny, piddly fish thus far, when something truly huge caught on his line. Thankful that he'd spent so much money on such a strong line and rod, he strained with all of his might on the reel to bring in his catch.

Most certainly, the last thing he was expecting was for a blue Zafara with a messy head of dark blue, almost black hair to bob out of the water. She coughed weakly, seawater spurting from her mouth and nostrils, as she blindly grabbed for the reel that had brought her up. In a fit of valor, stupidity, or most likely both, the Krawk leapt into the surf and swam towards the girl. Thankfully, her sopping, sooty body was light enough to easily drag back to shore. There, however, the Krawk was forced to give her what felt like several minutes of CPR before her wild eyes opened.

What shocked him was how she put his waist in a leglock, and yanked him down by the collar of his tunic. "Tell me where I'm at," she seethed, "Or I'll bust ya head open!" The Krawk didn't doubt for a moment that she'd carry through with her threat. He was still stuck stuttering for a few moments, before a growl and a shake of the Krawk's upper body broke him out of his shock. This girl genuinely looked about ready to kill, and this brought the words forward from the Krawk's mouth.

"Y, you, you're on Krawk Island," he at last managed to utter. "I'm Jamal, I was fishing, and, and you got caught on my line, and, when I brought you up you, you needed CPR and - Doof!" With surprising strength in her narrow limbs, especially for just having hacked a pint of seawater out of her lungs, the Zafara shoved Jamal away and looked out to sea. He could now see her mismatched pieces of armor, in addition to ratty clothes, and a few lumpy beltpouches that were sealed extremely tight. As her soaked fur and clothes dripped with slightly black-tinged seawater, Jamal's memory was nearly jogged by her appearance.

A bolt of lightning out on the horizon caught Jamal's eye, just as it drew the attention of the waterlogged Zafara. Or rather, they both flinched at the outline of five ominous ships, silhouetted far, far out to sea. Before Jamal knew it, his wrist was locked in a vicelike grip, and the blue Zafara began to drag him up the rickety old set of stairs he'd first used to descend to the beach. It was in mid-stride that he fully recognized the wiry girl dragging him along.

"Fyora above," he breathed, "You survived the _Revenge going down?_"

The Pirate Bomber said matter-of-factly, "No shit, Sherlock."

... ... ...

Jamal found the Pirate Bomber leading him through the darkened streets, into the least reputable part of town. As any seaman can attest, for a neighborhood to earn the moniker of 'least reputable' in a place the likes of Krawk Island's Warf's Wharf, some serious bad business has to be taking place. As a matter of fact, none of the night owl shopkeepers appeared to be the most trustworthy of sorts, to say the least. It was only natural for Jamal to be worried, then, when the Pirate Bomber charged headlong into a ramshackle shop: _Celty's Acquired Goods._

The place was actually quite nice, by Krawk Island's standards. There were a few rows of shelves, holding everything from Shenkuu medicine to Lost Desert foodstuffs to even plushies from Neopia Central. Jamal had no doubt in his mind that little to none of it had been procured by legal means. As the Pirate Bomber hammered on a counter bell, Jamal regarded what appeared to be a piece of sacred regalia from Brightvale - Sharing shelf space with a topless hula girl doll. How lovely.

It began to pique Jamal's curiosity as to just what kind of shopkeeper tended this oddball little place. Maybe a swarthy, hairy Chia, or a Korbat that would be all sharp edges and cursing. Certainly, Jamal wasn't expecting an Island Acara, with an azure blue lotus in her sable hair and black-painted lips. He particularly wasn't expecting the appealingly-built 'Pet to be wearing nothing but a black sweater, lacy white panties, and a tired scowl. Well, Celty _did_ sound like it could be a girl's name.

"Bomber," the Acara sighed, rubbing a paw at one eye, "What in the name of Fyora's Staff do you want? Do you realize how late it is?" She cut the Zafara off as soon as her mouth opened. "It's tomorrow morning! Also, more importantly, I'm glad you survived." Celty produced a big glass bottle of mysterious liquid, or perhaps gel, from behind the counter. She tossed it into the Pirate Bomber's hands, saying plainly, "You need a bath. Badly." The grimey blue Zafara was on the verge of snapping at Celty, but one even glare sent her into the back of the shop; already fighting to peel her clothes off.

This left Jamal alone with Celty. Being an upright young Krawk, he was determined to look anywhere but the Island Acara. Said Acara gave him an unseen smirk, before sitting down right behind the counter to read a book by lamplight. For a while, an awkward silence filled the room. Then, both looked up at the sound of shouts and cursing right outside.

At that moment, a snarling, unusually tall Royal Flotsam of some kind threw the door open. Stomping his way in, a-jangle with necklaces and bracelets, fingers glinting with rings, he made his way up to the counter.

"Celty, I'd like ya ta tell me," he growled, "Why in the hell we've got the entire Loreag Jones Pirates bearin' down on Krawk Island." He glanced down past the edge of the countertop. Yet when the sound of Celty methodically cracking her knuckles caught his attention, the decorated 'Pet more than doubled his distance. "Shit, geeze, I get it! Goddamn, why ain't ya wearin' any pants, anyhow?" He nearly tripped on his furlined purple cape as Celty stood up.

The Island Acara responded curtly, "One, I was asleep when an old friend of mine and her new friend came into my shop. I suppose that's what she was trying to tell me about why they're here. Secondly, if those maniacs are this far out of their turf, they must be after a big prize here." She stepped out from behind the counter, making both men flinch and look away. "For Fyora's sakes, it's not like I'm _naked._" Celty shrugged; "I guess I might as well get fully dressed, if you two can't handle seeing some leg." Jamal couldn't help but watch after as Celty went into the back of the shop.

Quite abruptly, he realized that he was now alone with the Royal Flotsam. Yes, the Royal Flotsam who seemed to be all jewelry, fine fabric, and muscle, and who was currently scowling towards the back room. As Jamal chanced a look over, he saw some kind of Jolly Roger tattooed on the Flotsam's bicep. Made in violet ink (Good God, how rich was this guy? Jamal had never seen royal purple dye used in a tattoo!), it consisted of a Skeith's skull superimposed over a cross fleury. It had a certain effect of looking like a flag rippling in the wind, as the muscles below flexed with each adjustment of the body's posture. Before Jamal could stop himself, he had to ask, "Are you a pirate captain, sir?" He felt about ready to run at that moment.

But the Flotsam merely gave him a sideways glance. "Yeah. The Velvet Corsairs. We own a lot o' tailors' and smiths' shops here on the Island." He gave Jamal a strong, almost painful handshake. "Call me Roderick. What's yer name?" Just as Jamal was about to reply, there was an excited scream from the next room. Now mostly cleaned up and garbed in a fresh set of clothes, yet still carrying those suspect beltpouches, the Pirate Bomber bounded out and leapt up to grab Roderick in a tackle of a hug.

It took a while for the two to stop chattering. As far as Jamal could parse, Roderick had been and old friend of Captain Scarblade; deckhands on the same ship, once, or so he claimed. Once Jamal was able to give his name to Roderick and Celty, the group sat down on a table in the corner. Over dented cans of flat Neocola that one of Celty's 'business partners' had gotten for her, Roderick chose to explain what he could of the situation.

"Those who've met Captain Scarblade, and then met Loreag Jones, have this ta say 'bout the former o' the two men:

"Scarblade was a fine gentleman."


End file.
